Last Dance
by DreamFlight
Summary: One shot. Celena POV. Postseries. Pretty dark, but I had to write it... the idea was haunting me. Has a rather unexpected ending.


**_Last Dance_**

Disclaimer: I don't own Escaflowne.

A/N: Yes, I know I have a big story that wants updates… but I felt like writing something a little more poetic. I hope you like it.

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I'm standing nervously on the marble staircase, straightening my pale blue gown. My pale blonde curls fall to my shoulders. I know I look pretty, but I feel so out of my league among the princesses and ladies who grace the ball. My eyes search the crowd for a familiar face, and I know my relief is betrayed by my face when I spot my brother. I step daintily down the stairs, my shoes refuse to allow me to walk any other way. I walk slowly, gracefully, admiring the rustle of my silken skirts.

I watch his expression as he watches me cross the dance floor towards him. I can tell from the look in his eyes that I have accomplished my goal. I wanted to show him tonight that I am not a little girl; that the months he has spent looking after me have not been in vain. I want so badly to make him proud. Ever since that day on the battlefield he has devoted himself to my care. Two long years of teaching, of caring, of helping me understand. I don't know how I lost all those years of my life, but thanks to Allen I feel like I can at least move forward. In these few years I feel like I've gone from a confused child to a young woman.

He smiles at me and takes my arm, saying something about how he'll have to keep his hand by his sword just to fight off the suitors. I smile back at him, my pale blue eyes dancing. I'm excited about this evening, for I will finally get to dance. I have been practicing for so long. The turns and the footwork never throw me; instead I am mesmerized by the flow of my body. It is a delicate challenge that one plays against their partner. It is beautiful, and somehow, some part of it feels familiar to me.

My brother guides me among the crowds, presenting me to members of the court. Everyone knows him so well – he was a hero of the war. I almost envy him the gazes of admiration that cross the faces of the men, and the looks of soft adoration that light up the faces of the ladies. I smile, proud of him. The faces blur and the names run together, but my excitement remains as a happy bubble. This is the first time Allen has trusted to allow me to meet new people, and it's my first time outside of Asturia.

I remember Queen Millerna arriving at our door, and requesting Allen's presence at the ball the Fanelian king was to be holding. Allen had been hesitant to agree, not wanting to leave me alone for such a long amount of time. The queen had insisted though, demanding to know why Allen couldn't bring me to the ball as well. Allen had tapped his foot impatiently asking why on earth he would do something like that to Van.

I had sat demurely on the top step of the stairs, listening intently to the conversation, just beyond my brother's sight. Who was Van? I wondered softly, though I was certain the name seemed familiar. I said it out loud, tasting the single syllable in my mouth. For some reason it reminded me of blood and smoke. I shook my head, the only time I had tasted blood was the time I had pricked myself too hard with a sewing needle. It had struck me odd though, that the scarlet red had seemed familiar at the time, as though blood was as common to me as water.

I had sat silently, lost in a strange swirl of half recollections until my brother found me. He had looked at me with a worried look, and had asked me what was on my mind. I just smiled up at him, happy to be disturbed from this strange reverie. He had smiled back, and announced then that all my dancing lessons would not be in vain. I was to attend my first ball!

I cling softly to Allen's arm, not quite brave enough to detach myself and speak to other girls my age. I feel as though I have missed too much of my girlhood to truly have anything in common with them. They smile at me, and I smile back knowingly. They know Allen is my brother, and I can see in their eyes that they would love to get to know him better. I am waiting for the music to start.

Finally the king decides to enter his ball. I stare up at him wonderingly as he surveys the crowd from the marble staircase. His raven hair appears wild, I wonder if anything could tame it. He carries himself with dignity, though I can tell by looking at him that he must be around the same age as me. I wish silently that one day I can be so brave looking. I shake my head, what does a girl want with bravery?

I hear it whispered that despite the ball, the young king is not looking for a wife; he's already given his heart away. I look back up at the dashing youth and smile. I can see the sadness in his eyes, the longing for someone who isn't there. I feel a brush of sympathy, but every girl in the room would have killed for just a single dance with the man. Whoever he was waiting for, must also be waiting for him. I watch him as he descends the stairs, no other man would be able to equal him in his true love's heart, I realize.

Suddenly I feel as though a fire burns in my soul. I hate him! I hate him with every ounce and particle of my being. He's a murderer, something screams inside me. How can you admire someone who stole so much from me? I blink softly, bringing the room back into focus.

"Me?" I whisper softly, in wonder. Had there been someone else talking? Why then had it seemed to come from inside me, from my very soul?

"Yes you," a male voice replied. I spin around to face a handsome brunette. "I asked you if such a lovely lady would honour me with a dance?" I smile; this was what I had come here for!

I spend the next hour twirling across the floor. Every dance I have a new partner. Every man tells me I dance like an angel. I counter and balance every move they make. My skirts flow like water. I laugh with the joy that movement brings. On the dance floor I feel more alive than I have in years. At least, I feel more alive than I can remember having felt.

A frown crosses my pretty face, as I realize the only man I have yet to dance with is the young king himself. I cross the marble floor, admiring the scarlet tapestries that surround the hall. I step up lightly to Allen's side where he is exchanging pleasantries with the noble women. I smile as I watch them flirt unabashedly. I'm almost tempted to roll my eyes. Allen told me long ago that he had found his one true love and had lost her. Though fleeting feelings may exist, he would never truly love again. I believe he did not lie to me when he said those words. He just is not very good at letting other women know this.

Finally I reach out and pull gently on his sleeve. His eyes hold an amused look of relief. I wonder sometimes why he speaks so prettily to all the young women. I shake my head, choosing to believe it is something he merely cannot help. "Is there anything I can do for you, my Lady?" he asks me gallantly.

I slap his shoulder gently. "Dear brother, you can tell me why the Fanelian King has yet to dance with me." My eyes sparkle as I ask him. I know he will take care of things from this point. I notice with regret the dark look that passes across his eyes for an instant. I wonder why there is so much secrecy and sadness. All I want is a dance? Surely that's not so dangerous?

I watch my brother make his way through the crowd to where the young king stood, waiting out a dance. I know he has made it a point to dance with every young woman at the ball but me. It bothers me, but there is something inside me that feels pride at this fact. He's scared! After all these years he's still scared! Something inside of me was gloating. In my confusion I look around the room, surely the voice I am hearing is not in my own head? Why should King Van be scared of me?

I don't want anyone to be scared of me. The feeling of power though, the power of fear, itches to fills my veins. I wonder how I know the feeling of power. I'm nothing but a helpless little girl. Aren't I? I blink the room back into focus and see the young king glaring at Allen, but his glare relents when he glances over at me.

I watch him cross the floor and hold out his hand to me. I smile sweetly as he sweeps me onto the dance floor. It's a complicated dance, but I flow through the steps with ease. The young king matches my grace, and I'm almost awed by how well-matched we are. I'm disappointed when the dance is over. I smile at him, he looks so bored by all the court beauties. "Save the last dance for me?" I ask him softly. He looks at me confused. My smile widens, "Like my brother, you're being chased. I know you love the girl from the Mystic Moon, if you dance with me, you won't be giving any of them the idea that they have a chance."

He smiles back then, seeing the simple brilliance to the plan. He bows and agrees to indeed save the last dance for me.

I feel famished as I wander over to the buffet table. I pick up a plate of something that looks and smells delicious and delicately lift the fork. For an instant, I do not believe my hand or my mind are my own. I stare intently at the silver tines of the fork, analyzing and weighing their sharpness. A young man taps my shoulder and enquires whether I feel well, stating that I have become rather pale. I smile, thanking him, but claiming I'm just hungry. He has no idea what darkness he has just rescued me from.

The hours spin by in the gracious dance. I have more and more trouble differentiating between myself and this strange shadow in my mind that is plotting something evil. I can taste the hatred in my mouth, and it scares me. I realize in a flash of insight why I am so good at dancing, why the patterns of steps and the balance are so natural to me. Dancing is just another form of battle.

I stare mindlessly into oblivion, wondering why I know battle, how I know the movements and the methods of weighing one's opponent. I wonder, and I feel the heavy shadow in my mind striving to steal control. I block him out. It is time for the last dance. I watch the young king stride across the floor towards me, and I see from the corner of my eye all the jealous girls in the room. I smile graciously. This dance shall be the greatest battle – a battle within and between myself.

At first I feel as if it may be just too simple. The skirts of other girls flow around me, and I keep tightly in step with the young king. He is dashing really, confident, smug. Smug? O no, I think, it begins. The voice rises within me, declaring all the raven-haired man's faults. It starts to mutter of the injustices that the man has wrought. The voice begins to trail off, I'm fearful, something has caught its attention. It is as if the voice is moving my eyes, and I am forced to watch the scene unfolding around me. I want to cry, why does any country have such a foolish custom as ceremonial weaponry that remains on their person at all times?

I try to close my eyes, to block the image of the sparkling hilt of the decorative, but deadly dagger in the sash of a man who dances not far from my right. 'You're weak.' The voice hisses, I begin to feel fear creeping up my spine. The voice sounds as if it is behind my ear, yet I know it is in my head. I can only watch in terror as the dance brings me swirling closer, ever closer, to the man with the knife.

I'm losing control of my body with every step. I can feel the hatred coursing through my veins and choking my breath. I wonder why and how the man who holds me so delicately in his arms does not notice. I wish to scream, but my vocal cords have been stolen from me. I watch helplessly as my right arm grabs the glittering hilt of the dagger and my right foot pulls back into an attack position. I try to scream, but an unfamiliar voice is what leaves my mouth. "I hate you!" it cries, and the hand moves. I can see the dagger plunging towards the young king and want to close my eyes. I want to wake up from this nightmare!

Suddenly, I realize that no one can save me from this but myself. "No!" I scream, and it is my voice that fractures the air of the ballroom. It is I that controls my left hand, which has grabbed the wrist of the right in a death grip that shall refuse to die. "No," I choke, as I watch my hand win over the one controlled by the demon in my mind. I see the look of fear and disbelief etched on the young king's face. He steps back from the deadly point of the dagger that had been a mere moment from piercing his chest. I could have sobbed, the point had been over his heart, had I waited an instant longer to act he would lay dead. I maintain my control however. My right hand is still struggling against the left.

I could have laughed at the absurdity of it all, except that I can see my brother's face. I can see the anguish and the pain I have caused him. I am about to turn my face from his, except that I realize there is another emotion in his eyes. Guilt. I look at him longingly, but the demon refuses to die. Instead he is taking more and more control. I can no longer feel my legs. I know he is the one who controls them, and I can see the deadly purpose he has written in every thought and dream. I sigh softly, I had wanted to live. I had wanted to love. I wish I could tell Allen I am sorry for what I must do.

I struggle with the demon for control of my voice again, but he is right. I am weak. He is moving my legs, our legs, and I realize that now is the only moment I have left. With his attention focused on moving and fighting for both legs and voice, he has weakened his fight with the one hand I still control. I turn the right hand so that the dagger faces my own breast. I take a deep breathe, the demon still has not realized what I am about to do.

The last thing I hear is Allen's voice, anguished and pained as he cries for me to stop. I know in that last moment that I have been loved. The last thing I see is the handsome face of the young king who promised me the last dance. I see the respect in his eyes, at least in them I am not reflected as a monster. The last thing I feel is the cold steel blade entering my body, and the hot dripping of my blood down my hands. The taste and the scent of blood fill my senses, familiar and welcome as death.

* * *

Yes, it's dark. It actually sends shivers down my spine. But the idea wouldn't go away until I had it written down. I actually much prefer writing humorous things (see my other story), but as I said, this one has been haunting me. 


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